


swear the sky's falling

by waveydnp



Series: tumblr prompts [11]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 05:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17298854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveydnp/pseuds/waveydnp
Summary: prompt: "i feel like i can't breathe"





	swear the sky's falling

All he wants is quiet. He just wants quiet and space and solitude.

Dan is talking as he pours himself a bowl of cereal over by the sink. He’s talking about something inane, rambling in that way he does, that stop start rhythm where he leaves sentences dangling and jumps from thought to thought as if Phil is right there in his head and understands just fine.

Maybe normally he would understand just fine, but today he just wants Dan to stop talking. Today Dan’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and the words just keep streaming out of his mouth like he’s on a mission to fill their kitchen with as much useless noise as possible.

It’s a feeling that crawls under his skin, like invisible insects scuttling away in places they were never meant to be. He cringes in the wake of their horrible little legs, his shoulders inching up to his ears as he sits at the table and stares out the window at a cold grey London morning.

There’s no snow. It’s just colourless and wet. The pavement looks dirty, the sky flat. He can’t decide if it’s better or worse than a sky full of blue and sun. He can’t decide if he has too much energy or not enough. All he knows is that he feels wrong.

The coffee that occupies the mug in front of him is good. It’s hot and strong and it’s what he’s living for right now, maybe the only thing in the whole damn world that doesn’t make him feel irrationally annoyed.

Dan comes over to stand beside him, but he doesn’t sit. He just stands there, hovering.

“What are you doing?” he says. “Why are you sat at the table?”

His voice is so loud. It bangs against the inside of Phil’s skull with every word. Phil cringes again, infinitesimally so as to avoid offending. It’s not Dan’s fault. He’s not actually doing anything wrong.

“I’m drinking my coffee.” It’s the simplest answer to the question and maybe shouldn’t come across as hostile as it does, but Dan notices right away.

“Um. Ok. I can see that. What’s your problem?”

Irritation flares hot. “I’m answering your question.”

“Fine,” Dan says curtly. “Whatever.”

Phil listens to his footsteps walking away until he’s gone, probably back to the bedroom or out to the lounge. He feels both guilty and satisfied for spreading just a little of his misery, two completely opposing emotions that somehow share the same space in his head. He knows without any shred of doubt that the guilt will magnify later and the satisfaction will evaporate when rationality returns, but for now he’s powerless against the excess hormone surging through his veins.

Is that what it is? He doesn’t even know. He can never remember that medical crap. It doesn’t matter anyway. Understanding it never stopped it from feeling like a chokehold on his life, so who really gives a toss?

He hears the tv come on then, the theme song of that freaking drum game. It’s loud - way too loud. He shouldn’t be able to hear it that clearly from the kitchen. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and jabs at the screen to type out his message and send it.

_can you turn that down? it’s way too loud. we have neighbours._

He hears it get quieter. By like, maybe two numbers on the remote. That just makes him even more pissed off. His phone buzzes and he looks down to see _why are you being such a dick._

If he was near anything soft enough to stop the screen cracking in half he’d throw his phone, but as it is nothing in his vicinity is conducive to cushioning his anxiety induced rage freak out so he shoves it back into his pocket with such violence that pain blossoms on his thigh.

If only iphones weren’t so expensive. He’d really love to break something right now.

Instead he gets up and stomps to the front door to pull on the coat he can’t wear without Dan reminding him that he hates it, his trainers, and a hat he knows he’ll regret bringing after five minutes. He slams the door behind him and heads for the stairs because the lift sometimes makes him feel ill and he kind of wants to do some more stomping where no one else can see him.

He’s going to go outside where the air is crisp and hopefully the noises of traffic won’t set him off in the same way Dan’s voice does.

He still doesn’t understand that part. Why does a sound that usually brings him joy make him want to tear off his skin and live life as a terrifying bloody beast on his bad days? Why is he ok to pull headphones over his ears and blast ‘90s indie rock but even the sound of his boyfriend breathing makes him angry?

He doesn’t get it. He’s not got any more answers now than he did when he first started having days like this, but at least he knows by now that leaving the house is better than getting into a shouting match with someone who’s guilty of nothing more than taking up space and living his life as he does every other day.

The buzzing in his pocket a few minutes later sets him off in a different way. He’s afraid to look, afraid that no matter what he finds there it won’t be good, but he pulls it out and looks anyway, because even on his bad days he remembers how much it used to hurt when Dan would leave without telling him where he was going or when he’d be back. _If_ he’d be back.

_did you leave?_

He takes a few minutes to let his mind settle a little more, to breathe in winter air and unknot his shoulders. When he pulls his phone back out he’s ready to respond without snark. _needed some air. bad day in my head._

It’s the perfect opportunity for an apology, some sort of acknowledgement that he’d taken it out on Dan when he certainly hadn’t deserved it, but he’s not there yet.

But he does feel something ease in his chest a little when Dan texts back, _ok. love you_

He walks around aimlessly, not feeling safe enough in his own mental capabilities to head back home until his socks are thoroughly wet and he can’t feel his toes. He ducks into the coffee shop around the corner from their flat and gets himself a coffee to make up for the one he’d left half drunk on the kitchen table.

He gets a chai latte for Dan. And a pistachio muffin.

Dan’s still playing the drum game when Phil gets in, but only a few moments after Phil’s kicked the door shut the sound stops and he hears Dan’s footsteps approaching. There is tension in his shoulders again already.

“Hey,” Dan says softly, leaning against the wall as he watches Phil struggle to get his wet shoes off.

Phil’s response is a grunt and a wordless offering of hot caffeinated beverage and overpriced pastry.

Dan accepts them both. “Cheers. Feel better?”

At that moment Phil’s got his coffee in one hand while the other tries to peel off a damp sock. His ankle is crossed over the knee of the other leg and he’s hopping a little to keep his balance but of course a maneuver like that would prove too much for him and he falls back against the door, coffee splashing out the hole in the lid of his cup and burning as it hits his hand.

“Fuck!” He doesn’t shout so much as exclaim loudly and with an abundance of venom, but it feels satisfying so he says it again even louder. “Fuck!”

“Are you alright?” Dan asks, because of course. That’s what a normal human person who isn’t a sociopath asks someone they’ve just witnessed injuring themselves.

And yet it takes Phil right back to where he was before, irrationally angry and lashing out at the person he knows will forgive him for it later. “No I’m not bloody alright. Take this!” He thrusts the offending paper cup in Dan’s direction and Dan takes it. Phil rips off his socks and launches them at the wall where they make a satisfying wet smack before falling to the ground.

Then he rips his hat and coat off for good measure and chucks them at the wall too. He’s seething and humiliated because he knows he doesn’t actually have anything to seethe about as he storms inside and past Dan, who’s just stood there looking slightly alarmed with the drinks in his hands. He doesn’t say anything, just steps out of the way so Phil can make a beeline for the bedroom.

He gets into bed, jeans and all and just lies there, chilled from the bit of wet denim around his ankles, his hand stinging slightly from the neglected burn. He doesn’t hear Dan at all, not playing video games or watching tv or padding up the stairs to check on him, and for that he’s very grateful.

That’s exactly what Phil needs right now: just to be left the fuck alone. It’s what he should have told Dan from the beginning instead of letting himself get annoyed by stupid things. He should have told Dan that his anxiety was bad and threatening to spill out the sides. He should have just told him he needed some quiet time to be alone and this whole thing could have been avoided, or at least minimized. He could’ve been anxious instead of anxious and angry and embarrassed and guilty.

Time passes and the guilt starts to eclipse all the other stuff, and that’s when he knows it’s safe to leave the confines of his bed and find Dan again.

Where he finds him is sat on the sofa with his computer on his lap and airpods in his ears. Something about that makes Phil feel like he might cry, but he doesn’t. He keeps himself together and plops down next to Dan on the sofa.

Dan shuts the laptop and takes the little white pods out of his ears. “Hey,” he says simply. That’s it, just a casual little ‘hey.’

“Sorry,” Phil mutters, pulling his legs up to cross them underneath himself.

“I know.”

Phil spots the paper muffin liner on the coffee table and the crumbly remainders of Phil’s peace offering. He nods his head in its direction and asks, “How was it?”

Dan puts his laptop on the other side of the sofa. “Good. Did you eat anything?”

Phil shakes his head.

“Wanna talk?”

Phil shakes his head again. “Definitely not.” Then he shivers a little.

Dan frowns. “You should go have a bath. Use one of my bombs. How’s your hand?”

Phil shrugs. “Hurts a bit. S’fine.”

“Phil,” Dan says gently, so much tenderness and patience and understanding wrapped up in that one word and the way Dan says it.

Phil lets it fill him up and nudge all the bad shit to the side a little as he slumps over into Dan’s chest. Dan lifts his arm to bring it back down loosely around Phil’s shoulders.

“I hate this,” Phil mutters. “I hate it. It’s not me.”

“I know,” Dan says.

“I just… it takes over my goddamn brain until I feel like I can’t even breathe anymore.”

Dan doesn’t say anything at all, just rubs his hand up and down Phil’s arm.

“I hate that it makes me mean,” Phil says quietly after a long silence.

“There’s only one thing to be done,” Dan says matter of factly.

Phil turns to look at his face. “What’s that?”

Dan smiles. “Dominos. Duh.”


End file.
